Happy Is The New Black.
It’s finally here! Can you smell it? Spring is in the air. A sense of blessed and delightful relief washes over us after enduring the harsh chill of a long winter.
Flowers and hardy plants poke through the softer soil as warmer days become more frequent. Signs of renewal are everywhere. Our big, puffy coats, and fuzzy gloves and hats get stored away, and out come the lighter blouses, tapered capri pants and sandals.
Women tend to break out the pastels, and get cute new haircuts with highlighted tips. Or, maybe that’s just our moms who do that. Either way, spring is about freshness, new activities, and getting outside. Then, like a punch to the stomach, it all comes to a screeching halt when it dawns on us that summer is just around the corner.
Just like that, darkness and dread descend upon the land as our happy, carefree, spring frolic-fest recoils. With knuckles dragging, shoulders drooping, and eyelids at half-mast, we begrudgingly make our way to the mother-effing mall to shop for a new bathing suit.
My new black (is there any other color?) bathing suit can only be described as a contraption because it is, indeed, a constricting trap.
There are a series of endless, intricate hooks and straps, stiff cups, and flaps, flattering ruffles, ruching (whatever the hell that is), and reinforced side-smoothing panels (honestly, it feels like a bulletproof vest).
I need two things to get the damn thing on: extra time, and a water bottle (in case I need to take a quick break to hydrate). To be frank, it also takes a crowbar, a small shoe horn, and nimble fingers for the necessary, fluttering burst of expertly administered wedgie-picking.
There are two pieces. Getting into the bottom half requires a slow sequence of Yoga postures complete with progressive breathing exercises. The top involves a bit of arm flailing, and a swaying movement one may only see at a church revival or during the cool-down period at the end of a Zumba class.
To put it delicately, my boobs must be hoisted first, and then gently placed inside the unforgiving cups. Madonna’s John Paul Gaultier pointy cone-bra costume comes to mind.
It all comes together with a bit of pushing, pulling, stretching, and a brief but incredibly scary ‘blackout’ moment, so I find it’s best to keep some smelling salts handy. I must also make a mental note to set out a circle of pillows before I begin, to avoid a head injury.
Putting on the suit has become, over the past few weeks, an interpretive performance art masterpiece I call The Dance of Declivity.
As the artist struggles with the physical and emotional stress of maintaining a certain degree of dignity during the process of putting on the damn suit, so too does her audience, especially at the poignantly brilliant conclusion of her performance, when the artist, clearly weakened, tearfully screams, “Look away! Just look away!” And… scene.
It used to be that the only things I was ever afraid of at the beach were the inevitable nipple slip, a shark in the water, or a hot, messy case of sand crack syndrome. Now I’m afraid I won’t be able to stand up if I’m even able to sit myself down.
The reality this year, and every year it seems, is that in order to be comfortable hanging out at the beach, I must first gyrate and shimmy my way into something not so comfortable. Oh, the irony. Sigh.
You would think that after successfully losing the equivalent of two full kegs of beer, and running like Forrest Gump for the past year and a half, a lady might feel better about the possibility of new bathing suit choices, and earnestly hope to don something colorful, sporty, and comfortable.
Something that offers a skirt as an option instead of the ‘third piece’ included requirement. One would think it would be a triumphant moment in time for women who work out everywhere, but one would surely be wrong.
But, hey, guess what? I honestly don’t care. I’m happy, and healthy, and I just don’t care. I’d rather swim, and float, and look for seashells, and walk (or run!) on the beach than spend my energy caring about what I look like in a bathing suit.
These days, I want to be in the photo standing up tall, as proud as a peacock, with hands on my hips and my chin out smiling, instead of crouched down behind a beach chair or hiding behind other people.
Another black bathing suit? Okay, yes. Bought one. Bought the matching sarong too. But this year, I’ve decided that happy is the new black. Healthy is the new black. Because it’s not about the suit. It’s about the woman bursting at the seams inside it, enjoying the miraculous gift of her life. And she’s sexier and more alive than ever.
Kimberly Valzania practices mindful gratefulness. She feels creatively driven to write about and share her personal experience and opinion on weight loss, fitness, life changes, adventures in parenting, day-to-day triumphs (and failures), and the truth-seeking struggle of simply being human. She believes that life is indeed a journey, and that precious moments appear (like magic) when you surrender, hold hands, and fling yourself into the great, wide, open. You can read more at her website.